


Gravitation

by Brillador



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Accents, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Angst and Humor, Angst with a Happy Ending, Christmas, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-22
Updated: 2016-12-22
Packaged: 2018-09-10 22:45:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8942488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brillador/pseuds/Brillador
Summary: My Rumbelle Secret Santa 2015 gift to joylee56. Prompt: accent won’t forget–include Bae/Neal. Belle decides to take a European travel holiday for Christmas, much to her father’s disappointment and her own self-doubt. A chance meeting with two helpful women forces her to confront her unhappy associations with the season and rediscover the joy of giving–especially when it comes to a certain Scottish gentleman and his son. Minor warning: mentions of character death.





	

_Then the Old Man of the Earth stooped over the floor of the cave, raised a huge stone from it, and left it leaning. It disclosed a great hole that went plumb-down._

_"That is the way," he said._

_"But there are no stairs."_

_"You must throw yourself in. There is no other way."_

That line always made Belle’s breath snag somewhere between her breastbone and her larynx. She’d not read “The Golden Key,” or the whole of George MacDonald’s _Dealings with the Fairies,_ since before high school, but the memories of hearing and reading each tale on her mother’s lap or against her father’s hefty torso retained an uncanny freshness. She didn’t know why her mother had brought up the tradition of reading stories together at Christmas time. The reason didn’t much matter in the end because Belle loved books, and better still, she loved sharing books with others. Moe volunteered to read after dinner only at Colette’s consistent suggesting; he preferred relaxing with a beer in front of the TV or listening to sports on his old radio from his college days. Christmas was a special enough time, perhaps, to encourage him to make the effort. He had a respectable reading voice. Belle had liked hearing it rumble under her ear, but he wore out quickly. As soon as his voice roughened like sandpaper, Colette elected to resume. Her voice flowed over the words like hands on silk, savoring their texture. Belle had to make a concentrated effort to listen she spoke so delicately. While her father’s vibrating chest cavity could lull her to sleep like a train, her mother’s was a dancing leaf that demanded she chase it to the very end. She would be contently fatigued but awake when both parents agreed to leave off in the book for next time. More than not, Colette had made a point to either stop on an infuriating cliffhanger or finish off the book entirely.

Reading the book on her flight into Heathrow was helping Belle feel more grounded, so to speak. A few stubborn butterflies were still occupying her stomach in spite of all the conversations she’d had with friends, her undergraduate advisor and members of online academic forums. This really was the best thing, not jumping into grad school right away. Although she finished strong in her last semester, the strain had been pulling on her for almost two years. Going back to school last fall, she seriously feared an emotional breakdown. That’s when the panic attacks started—not big ones, not as bad as what other people described in the group sessions. Ruby, her American flat mate whom she still emailed and Skyped, had cajoled her into attending the group after finding her in the bathroom crying. Still, attacks had been enough of a warning sign. If she didn’t take time off, she might spiral into a hole she couldn’t as easily climb out of. 

* * *

Right now, the biggest weight on her guilt pressure point—the one at the base of her diaphragm—was not spending Christmas at home. Moe wasn’t the most sentimental man, but Belle could tell he didn’t like the idea of spending this Christmas without her. Two years ago it was abject misery. Last year was a slight improvement. He probably wanted to make it up to her this year with a feeling of “old times”—good Auld Lang Syne. It wasn’t easy telling him she didn’t feel ready for that. To be honest, it didn’t feel possible. She preferred looking ahead as much as possible, to the new. That’s why she was on a plane to Heathrow instead of Perth.

When the plane started tilting left and right in the final circles above the airport runway, Belle tucked her book away and stared out, not at all minding the maneuvering. She was actually glad that a mist welcomed her as they looped and eventually touched down. Australia was known for two types of climate: rainforest and desert. Perth weather knew how to deliver both. As it was in fact summer in her home country, Belle thrilled at the idea of seeing her first wintry December. She didn’t get to taste it until after departing from the plane, claiming her two suitcases, going through an interminable customs line, spotting Will Scarlet and Anastasia Tremaine with her name on a sign, and riding the Heathrow Express to Paddington. At last they emerged from the large station to catch a bus to the couple’s flat. Belle sighed at the water sprinkled her. It wasn’t as cold as she expected. Chilly, certainly, but the rain wasn’t icy. Just a drizzle drifting like a benign ghost, clinging to her face once she was outside with her baggage. Will was ready with a brolly for her, just in case she forgot to bring one.

“I kind of like the rain, actually,” Belle said.

“Spoken like an outsider,” Ana teased.

“Hey, it’s gotta be a nice change after living in the Outback,” Will countered.

“Yes,” Belle remarked with an askance look, “where I keep my ranch of kangaroos.”

He cocked his head. “They seriously have those?”

Ana slapped his arm. Belle giggled and thanked her lucky stars. As with Ruby, Belle had met Will through her university’s exchange program, only in second year rather than fourth. He had made some sessions of exam crunching bearable with his sense of humor. When she decided on her European adventure, it made sense to ease in with a tour of the British Isles where the language barrier would be the mildest challenge. Will was her second idea for a base of operations, preceded by a list of youth hostels in Central London. She hated being an imposition, especially at this time of year, but Will was eager for Belle and Ana to meet. That wish was partially granted thanks to a couple minutes of Ana joining their Skype chat. In some ways Will’s and Ana’s comedic sensibilities overlapped, especially in the area of dry wit.

Belle shared a few details about her flight, but the conversation soon shifted to what Will had been up to since coming back to the UK. She favored that topic, as their long-distance communications had conveyed a limited amount of intel. He’d finished university, too, but for now, a bartending job was keeping him in the black. Ana was still in law school and taking on modeling gigs, something she got into at the start of uni. Belle caught a hint of embarrassment from Ana when Will brought it up with unguarded casualness. It was hard to know what to say. Ana certainly had a face for modeling, but it was just to make ends meet, and Belle could only imagine the pressures any model, short- or long-term, might face to maintain the industry’s brutal standards of beauty.

Hoping to assuage any unease, Belle explained that while her father would’ve liked her to stay on at his flower shop, she was hoping to start looking for work relevant to her library science degree once she got home. Being a librarian’s assistant wouldn’t rake in much, but she’d rather do something she loved for a living and live modestly.

Ana shrugged. “Can’t say if I _love_ law, but I’m good at it.”

Belle nodded, accepting if not in complete understanding. Perhaps it was a little bit like her chosen field of study. She loved books, but library science didn’t comprise solely of knowing how to organize books. She’d learned far more than she’d expected when she realized this degree existed at all. And she didn’t regret a moment of it. But if there was something she’d been aching to do for much of her life, it wasn’t studying information theory. It was opening her mind to new experiences, be it through books or travel.

“So,” Will oh-so-subtly announced after they stepped off the bus, “have you decided where you’re spending Christmas?”

“You do know you’re welcome to celebrate it with us,” Ana said, kindly holding the door to the building open for Will as he lugged in the bigger suitcase.

“I really appreciate that,” Belle said. “It depends how much of Scotland I get to squeeze in this week.”

Will waited by the lift for the girls. The door opened just as Belle successfully made it inside with her rolling duffle bag. He stepped in and held it open until all persons and luggage were on board.

“You can’t spare a few extra days with your mates?” he said.

“I’ll be here through the weekend! After that, you’ll be itching to get rid of me.” Belle winked at him.

“Oh, we’ll see about that,” Ana remarked mysteriously as she pushed the button for their floor. “You’re not the first friend Will’s had over in the last year. Remember Fawkes Night?”

“Now, hold on.” Will raised a self-defending hand. “That was a one-off, and it was an emergency. Robin and his crew just needed to lay low for a bit.”

“Yeah. They were here all of one night and the fridge was nearly cleaned out.”

“We didn’t have a whole lot in there to begin with.”

“You’d think they’d have the courtesy to clean up after themselves!”

Belle would not have cut off this piece-meal account of one of Will’s “street friends” crashing at the flat after a brush with some bobbies for the world. For better or worse, the couple tacitly, if tersely, agreed to put a hold on it while getting Belle settled in.

She couldn’t resist stirring the pot. “Any chance we might see them for the holidays?”

“Over my—” Ana started.

“Robin’s got a wife and kid,” Will quickly explained. “He may be a bit of a scamp, but he’s a family man, too. I’m sure they’d rather like the holiday at their own place.”

The next few days were on the quiet side. Will volunteered to show Belle his favorite spots (see: pubs) around Bayswater and other nearby neighborhoods. One afternoon that was partly sunny and not too cold, Belle took a stroll through Kensington Gardens, toured Kensington Palace, and wound her way back to the Long Water where the Peter Pan statue resided. The intriguing figure, crawling with fairies and small critters, couldn’t fail to make her smile. It also made her mentally review her itinerary for her Scotland trip. J. M. Barrie, along with George MacDonald, had captured her young heart with his stories. It thrilled her to know she would soon be visiting both authors’ birthplaces. It was awfully far north, though—she’d have to take the 7-hour train ride to Aberdeen and hire a car to get to MacDonald’s native Huntly before looping down to Kirriemuir in Angus to visit the Barrie museum. There was another Peter Pan statue there, too. Belle spared a minute to take a picture of the Kensington version for future comparison. She’d read how Barrie was somewhat disappointed in this incarnation. He said it lacked the boy’s devilish side. That might have been true, but he did own a commanding presence. Peter and his pipes seemed to summon the creatures beneath his feet. More like the Pied Piper than anything.

The night before she had to catch the 10 o’clock train from King’s Cross, she detailed to Will and Ana what she most hoped to see in Huntly and Kirriemuir, along with some stunning crags and Aberdeen’s view of the North Sea.

“Aberdeen? Well, hope you like the Arctic.” As though to combat the very idea of braving the northern Scottish climate, Will took another hearty bite of his chicken tikka masala. Belle laughed, then savored her lamb-stuffed samosa. They had Indian takeaway in Scotland, too, right?

“It’s Aberdeen, Will,” Belle said, “not Orkney.”

“Well, if you’re looking to see a white Christmas, Scotland’s a good place to find it,” Ana said while scooping up some khichdi with a piece of naan. “Personally, I’d rather be in the Mediterranean on the beach getting a tan.”

“That’s what we do at home,” Belle said, just managing to swallow her food before speaking.

“Really?” Ana poked Will. “We need to go to Australia next year!”

He raised his heavy eyebrows and looked at their guest. “If Belle’s willing to put us up.”

Belle gave a cheeky grin. “If you’re willing to put up with scorpions, snakes, bird-eating spiders, fire tornados—just to name a few things we’ve got in spades—then sure!”

That put a damper on any more talk about visiting Down Under, but by the determined glint in Ana’s eyes, it wouldn’t be the last time the subject surfaced. Belle actually liked the idea, but she didn’t want to think too much about home. She was starting to feel the first pangs of homesickness. Her skin missed the sun’s warmth, her nose the brine of the seashore and the smoky aroma of barbeques. That was the Christmas she’d known her whole life. Her mother had made sure the house was decked in colorful lights and a fake five-foot pine tree dripping with kangaroos, platypuses, koalas and starfish dressed like Santa or his elves. Belle and her parents had enjoyed the holiday at the beach with friends. They would devote the day to beach ball and the sculpting of sandy “snow” men, while at night they lounged while enjoying fireworks. Then, of course, they had to be back home in time to sleep so Santa wouldn’t skip their house to deliver gifts.

After dinner, Belle went to bed ready to anticipate her trip instead. It wasn’t easy to do that and get a decent night’s sleep. Excited as she was, much of her brainpower went into running through her travel itinerary. The train ride and the car wouldn’t be much of a hassle—so she hoped. The more hair-raising thing was navigating Scotland’s roads for the first time. Yes, she had a well-marked map, but would the roads be clear? Would she get distracted being out in the wide hilly countryside, especially if it _was_ snowing? Oh, God, what if there was ice? She forgot about that possibility!

Shaking off her paranoia, Belle grabbed her faded copy of _Dealings with the Fairies_ from her knapsack and, using her phone, started re-reading “The Light Princess.” That story always amused her, sometimes provoking an involuntary giggle. As soon as one jumped out, she muffled it and held still, making sure her friends hadn’t been roused by a titter probably too soft to disturb a mouse. At some point during the passage where the witch was draining the lake the princess liked to swim, she started drifting off.

* * *

“Oh, come _on_!”

Of course something had to go wrong eventually. The first close call had been over twenty-four hours ago when Belle awoke and saw she hadn’t set her phone alarm. Thank goodness she had enough time to run out, giving Will a quick hug goodbye (Ana was still asleep) and a promise to call once she got to Aberdeen. She was already set up with a new local SIM card for her mobile. That she’d made the train, reached Aberdeen on time and picked up her car no problem had filled her with confidence. And false security.

Where had she made the wrong turn? Belle kept staring at the map. There were many country roads not drawn on it. She should’ve acquired a new map in the city. She’d been fine while on A96, but of course she’d seen a sign for a rest stop and, thinking it a simple matter of getting back to the highway, turned off into a little village halfway between Huntly and Kirriemuir. Now she was on some back road, bereft of any signs. There was some snow on the ground, but sparse enough that pulling off to the roadside to examine her sole piece of navigational guidance was relatively safe.

Right now she couldn’t relish the frosty phenomenon as she first did driving out of Aberdeen. In the city there was hardly any snow to speak of, except the slush building up in the gutters, grey from street grime. It had made her all the more eager to see pure white drifts once she passed the city limits. Not that there weren’t other sights to enjoy. She’d had the mind to drive around a bit, mostly near the water. Along with spying the beautiful blue Aberdeen Bay across wharfs and beaches, she saw the River Dee diverting into Aberdeen Harbour, which was populated by steamboats and tugboats. She also drove north through Old Aberdeen and crossed the Bridge of Don. In Old Aberdeen some of the streets still had cobblestone, moreso than London, and they charmed her. Everything quickly darkened, however, barely saved by the golden street lights and the car’s headlights. The winter sun disappeared all too soon. That sent her west to the Britannia Hotel for the night.

After that first successful day, Belle ventured with perhaps too much self-reliance and not enough vigilance. Huntly, or Milton on Strathbogie, was her major location of interest for the morning. She fell for the old beauties of Huntly Castle and the George MacDonald Trail. Much as she liked roaming on her own—and how she felt like a kid on Christmas morning to see that Huntly’s welcome sign included MacDonald’s phrase “Room to Roam”—Belle appreciated having a booklet that detailed the author’s life and guided a person through the town that inspired his work. The title alone, “Secret Doorways, Strange Worlds,” evoked the dreamy mood she’d sink into while reading the Scotsman’s fairytales. The banks of the River Bogie probably evoked more “fairyland” enchantment in spring or summer when grass and trees flourished in verdant splendor. In early December, a withered brown hue loomed over the dormant vegetation. Branches, most of them stripped but some still clothed in orange and brown leaves, twitched in the wind. Belle no less detected the latent spirit of what the writer manifested in words.

Yes, despite her disappointment to find only a plaque dedicated to MacDonald on the building of his birthplace (now a dentist office), it was a perfect morning. That alone should’ve warned her. Maybe her happy musings were the cause of her poor judgment. Well, now she was paying the price.

Belle groaned. Her hands started to crumple the map on her lap. She could’ve been thinking about this all wrong. She didn’t want to get _more_ lost, but she wasn’t letting herself take in the rolling landscape by sitting and fretting about what to do. Her drive from Huntly to Kirriemuir shouldn’t have stretched beyond two hours; she couldn’t be _so_ lost that she’d end up in the wrong part of Scotland by evening. If she could figure out which way east was, she could head back to Aberdeen and drive to Kirriemuir tomorrow. A shame, since she’d meant to drive down to Edinburgh for a three-day trip before the week was out. And she’d wanted to tour Perth, if only to acquaint herself with the same namesake of the city for which Avonlea enjoyed being a suburb. That she could give up—

Dammit, why was travel stressful? Why did she have to plan this so close to Christmas? Belle shoved the map aside. Her head thudded on her seat’s vinyl headrest. The engine had been off for several minutes now, and the outside chill was seeping in. She rubbed her arms. When she sighed, cloudy breath billowed out. She reached for the ignition key.

A car honked behind her.

Her car was far enough off the road to leave the lane clear. Piqued by what she took to be a taunt, Belle turned around, not sure if she’d begrudgingly apologize for loitering or bark a defensive remark. Any rude impulse fled when she saw the two women sitting in front of the burgundy estate car now pulling up beside hers. They had the sort of faces a solitary traveler might hope to see in a pinch. They were likely in their seventies, possibly eighties. Gray streamed from their temples. The driver, a blonde, was making a valiant effort to weave silver with pale gold. Her companion’s brown hair demonstrated resilience thanks to some superlative dye. Her smiling face blended fermented wisdom with innocent friendliness. The first woman’s expression was a little more arch, a little less approachable, but equally well-meaning.

The same woman rolled down her window. “You good there, lassie?”

Some desperation leaked into Belle’s hand, as the speed with which she lowered her own window suggested. “Um . . . actually, I’m a little lost.”

“Ah. Thought so.”

The brunette leaned across the driver’s lap. “We guessed you might be having trouble. Visiting, are ye? Down Under?”

A bit quick and personal. Her accent must have tipped them off, though. “Right on.” She allowed a sheepish smile.

“Brilliant! We dinnae get many here!” The brunette was so pleased Belle started to flush. “What’s brought ye this way?”

“I was trying to get to Kirriemuir,” Belle said.

“Oh, we live right near it!” the blonde said. “Need a guide?”

That was awfully convenient. Then again, she couldn’t be that far off from the main road. “That’d be great, thank you!”

“All right! Follow us.”

Oh. Follow? They couldn’t just tell her where to go. “Are you sure that’s not inconvenient to you?”

“Nae at all!” the brunette chimed in.

“We’re so close. It’s a simple turn off the road,” the blonde explained. “Nae more than five minutes outta our way.”

“That’s very nice of you. Um, how far is it?”

“An hour,” both women said with the same casual tone.

Okay. That wasn’t weird, was it? Were they sisters? Just good friends? Lesbian couple? Belle was wary to make assumptions. As long as they weren’t secretly planning to abduct or kill her, it was really none of her business. With that thought, she made sure her phone was within reach and with plenty of battery power as she followed the ladies’ car.

Indeed, about an hour later, Belle was closely tailing the red growling beast on the highway when they approached a sign to turn off for Kirriemuir. The ladies took it, so Belle kept on following. The road sloped down, and she could see the woodlands and tall hills hugging the edges of the town. These must’ve been the Angus Glens. Kirriemuir looked about the same size as Huntly, a cozy hamlet that slightly resembled her native Avonlea in its narrow roads, but the cobblestones and red sandstone buildings hinted at its prolonged age. By all likelihood, it didn’t look much different now than when James Barrie was growing up 150 years earlier.

At an intersection with just a single stop sign, the brunette woman’s arm waved out the left-side window. Belle took the motion as a request to pull up next to them. She obliged, and was rewarded with both women looking out at her.

“You got a place to stay in Kirrie?” the brunette asked.

“No, I was going to go back to Aberdeen later,” Belle said.

“Bad idea.”

“It’s going to snow before dusk,” said the blonde.

Oh, shoot. Belle had meant to check the forecast. If she was used to driving in snow, she might’ve taken the chance regardless. “I can find a B&B or something,” she said.

“Yer welcome to stay the night with us!” said the brunette. The blonde nodded.

“Oh . . .” By all appearances, there was no reason to find the pair suspicious. It wasn’t as though some suave guy was trying to snatch her. Still, they were strangers. She was clearly foreign. Was she going to find herself being drugged and shipped out across the world in the next 48 hours? Or locked up in their cellar icebox for much longer?

“Ye can meet our grandson!” the brunette said.

“He’s the sweetest,” the blonde said. “He’s visiting from America with his father.”

Belle bit her lip. After some long silent seconds of weighing the choices and their potential consequences, she shrugged. To hell with it. If there was any time of year to trust one’s fellow man, or woman, it was Christmas.

“All right, if it’s no trouble.”

It did calm her mind that, as they said, their home wasn’t more than ten minutes outside Kirriemuir. She could probably walk into town from the sandstone house within 45 minutes. They had neighbors, too, spaced a half mile apart. The flat terrain was conducive to animal grazing, and to Belle’s elation she saw several pens of cattle and ponies on the way. Behind the women’s house she glanced a pen of sheep, about twenty ewes in all.

The two cars pulled into the bottleneck driveway. An evergreen wreath decorated with pinecones, dried blood orange slices, and holly berries hung on the iron door knocker. Icicle lights lined the gutters and gables.

“This is really nice of you,” Belle said as she locked up her car and, luggage in each hand, joined her hosts. “I’m Belle, by the way.”

“Oh, that’s right! We didn’t even introduce ourselves.” The blonde came to her first and offered her hand. “Una Darrow. This is Leslie Rose.” She nodded back to her companion.

Belle shook hands with Leslie, too, then noticed that the front door had opened a few inches. After a hesitant moment, a head covered with thick dark hair poked out.

“Is that your grandson?” Belle asked.

The women looked back. “Hi, Neal!” they called in unison while waving to him.

The boy’s head ducked back in, then emerged bowed, embarrassed. The door swung open with such resignation Belle couldn’t resist grinning and feeling bad for the boy at the same time.

“Come and meet our new friend! And help her with her bags!” Una said, both request and instruction.

He loped out. His head straightened up. His hands hid in the pockets of his sweatshirt. Belle’s heart went out to the adolescent reluctance with which he obliged his grandmothers, but she sensed he wasn’t entirely miserable. Just shy. When she smiled and gave her name, it melted away some frigidity.

“Nice to meet you, Neal.”

“You, too,” he said, managing a smile. “Not from around here, right?”

“Nope. I arrived in London before the week-end. Got up here yesterday.”

“Guess when we said ‘friend’,” Una observed, “we’ve should’ve clarified with ‘we just met’. She’s also our new houseguest.”

“Really?” Neal noted her bags while looking skeptical.

“Now don’t you worry,” she said.

“We’ll set her up in the den with the fold-away sofa,” Leslie added right after.

“Ye and yer dad needn’t worry about a thing.”

“There’s plenty of room.”

Belle smiled to cover her surprise at how well coordinated the ladies were in their joint thought process. “I did say I don’t want to be an inconvenience.”

Leslie patted her shoulder. “Lassie, we wouldn’t have asked if it was.”

“At our age,” Una said, “we know how to bite off as much as we can chew.”

The pair led the way along the flagstone path, adamant against any further argument. Neal, after taking her rolling suitcase while she retained the duffle, matched her strides and muttered, “In case you’re wondering, yes, they’re always like this.”

“Ah, good to know. Thank you.”

He shrugged. His smile reached only halfway across his face, but it was genuine.

The interior met most of Belle’s expectations of a comfy Scottish farmhouse owned by two elderly women. The furniture dated to at least the 1950s, but the upholstery looked new. The living room was small, intimate, illuminated with incandescent sconces and a floor lamp with a stain-glass shade. Not a trace of mustiness met her nose. She caught a floral scent underneath a predominating pine aroma thanks to the potted tree, five feet tall, sitting in the corner near the low-burning hearth. The smell could’ve also come from an air freshener recently deployed. The room on the whole, along with being neat and clean, sported some pine twigs, pinecones, and red-green plaid ribbons on the window sills and mantle. A barkless log sat on the opposite end of the fireplace, also tied up with a ribbon. That must’ve been their Yule log!

“Told ye it was a good idea to start Redding early,” Leslie commented as she shucked her coat.

Una snapped her an indignant look. “What d’you mean? It was _mae_ suggestion!”

“Nae, ye wanted to wait till the boys got here so they could help.”

“Oh, I never said that!”

“What’s Redding?” Belle asked, partly to defuse the argument.

“Ah, it’s like Spring Cleaning, except we do it for Hogmanay,” Una explained while handing her coat to Leslie.

“She doesn’t know what Hogmanay is,” Leslie pointed out.

“Is that what Scots call the New Year?”

Both women raised their eyebrows at Belle. Then Una nodded approvingly. “Done your research?”

Belle beamed a little. “There’s a lot I didn’t get to learn in depth, but I figured I should have some idea of Scottish traditions this time of year. So, you do celebrate it?”

“Oh, aye,” Una said. “Most people nowadays get a tree, exchange gifts. But Hogmanay is a bigger thing here.” She urged Belle to surrender her coat, hat, gloves and scarf.

“Any plans for the occasion?”

With judicious delay, Leslie said, “Well, we’ve talked to Douglas about visiting Aberdeen or Glasgow.”

“That’s my dad,” Neal jumped in. Then he added, directed to his grandmothers, “He’s still downstairs.”

“Still?” Both women declared the word with gentle surprise and worry. Leslie continued, “Tell him to come up for a break. We’ll brew some tea. Cocoa for you, Neal?”

“Sure, thanks.” Neal took that as leave to dash down the hall, past the kitchen that Una and Leslie shortly turned into, and open a door on the right and disappear downward.

“May I use your toilet?” Belle called.

“’Course, lassie!” Una poked out the kitchen doorway and thumbed down the hallway. “It’s the first door on the left.”

Belle thanked her and went for it. While she did need to attend to nature’s call, what she really wanted was a moment to freshen up and reflect on what she was doing. She’d just stepped into the home of complete strangers. Very nice strangers, but strangers all the same. That said, she was finding herself liking them, curious about the fact that, while Una and Leslie’s Scottish brogue was pronounced, Neal sounded like a homegrown American kid. Maybe this was his first time in Scotland, his father’s native country. She would’ve liked getting to know him and ask about the States and where else he’d traveled. But was that appropriate? She would stay just one night and be on her way. The family had their own plans, and even if nothing was set down, inviting an outsider to their holiday festivities wasn’t part of them. Did she really want to get involved, anyway? In a week she’d return to London to visit more landmarks, like the British Library and the Charles Dickens Museum, then take the Chunnel from Dover to Calais and stay in Paris for two weeks. Following a scenic train ride across France, she’d stop off in Turn for another two weeks, then fly to Taiwan to stay with Mulan, another school friend. That would end with her going back to Australia in time for her father’s birthday. So, she had her own plans to adhere to.

It couldn’t be bad, though, making new friends.

Belle pictured Will, Mulan, Ruby, even Ana—all people from across the world she’d met because they’d come to her country. They’d taken a chance to not merely pass through on a whirlwind adventure, but to step into a new life, culture and social circle, if only for a short time. She could do the same now, right?

_Don’t let your fears stop you,_ she could hear her mother say. _Just dive in_.

Didn’t the Old Man of the Earth say something to that effect in “The Golden Key?” Yeah, of _course_ she’d draw on her favorite books for inspiration, not just her mother. Belle shook her head, deprecating but forgiving, then fluffed her hair, reapplied her lip gloss, unwrinkled her clothes and left the loo with a smidgen more purpose than she’d walked in with.

Voices from the kitchen caught her ear right away. “Are you serious?” a man’s voice said. “Where is she?”

“Powder room, and _relax_ ,” Una said. “She’s a good lass. Polite, pleasant.”

“Pretty,” Leslie contributed.

“And her accent’s adorable. Ye need to hear it!”

The man sighed in a way that made Belle think it wasn’t the first time Una and Leslie had lent a helping hand like this. “How long did you say she could stay?”

“One night,” both women said.

“Good.”

“Oh, come on,” Leslie said, “it’s the spirit of the season to help those in need!”

He made no comment right away. Their footsteps carried them deeper into the kitchen. Belle took the opportunity to tiptoe down the hallway and take up a post close to the archway so she could peek around its edge. She got to peek at the man’s back. He was slightly taller than Una, definitely shorter than Leslie. A curtain of feathery light-brown hair blocked her view of his face. The rest of him was wrapped up in the remnants of a suit: dress pants and shoes, a waistcoat, and a blue shirt with a subtle floral pattern. She cracked a grin at his sleeve garters, intended more for fashion than function. A part of her had expected someone a bit more rugged. He _was_ from the States, and he’d grown up on a farm. He fitted more the idea of a British gent. That included the gold-handled cane that came into her sights when the man turned to the sink to rinse out his coffee mug. Noticing the cane also brought her attention to the hints of gray growing into his brown mane. God, his hair was so downy. Some of the ends curled a bit at the shirt collar. How much product did it take to keep that fine silky texture?

“Where’s Neal?” he asked.

“Upstairs again,” Leslie answered.

“Keeping to himself,” Una said, hidden somewhere on his right side. “I dinnae blame him, but maybe this lass will bring him out of his shell.”

“She’s that pretty, huh?” Wry amusement whetted his voice that begged Belle to be offended, but instead it sent an intrigued shudder through her.

“Give her a chance, dearie.”

He sighed again. “I suppose if she lifts Neal’s spirits, she’s good for something.”

Una pinched his arm. “That’s not why we brought her here.”

“Ow.” He whined half-heartedly. “You can’t keep doing that, y’know.”

“I’ll do what I must to keep you civil.”

Leslie laughed. Despite the reprimand, the man looked at ease, silently sharing in Leslie’s mirth.

That was enough eavesdropping. Belle stepped like a cat to the loo. She opened its door, then shut with enough force to be heard. A whispered “Here she comes” heralded her return to the kitchen, only this time her hosts were aware of her presence. The man—Douglas was his name, if she remembered right—came forward first. Belle was struck by the face she could finally observe. If Una and Leslie really were his mothers, she could believe it based on resemblance alone. Of course, he couldn’t actually be their biological offspring, yet he had Una’s sharp nose and Leslie’s dark brown eyes. His hair color was halfway between the blonde’s and the brunette’s. It may have been closer to gold than brown in his childhood. He was probably late forties, early fifties. His face was clean-shaven, but his features weren’t polished in the Bond-like fashion she’d started to visualize. His wardrobe and grooming habits said ‘posh’, but his natural looks bespoke a rougher beginning and earthy roots. At the same time, he was all lean lines and sharp angles—a clever face on a nimble body.

“You must be Belle.” With his right hand holding the cane, he gestured at her with his left, like he was presenting her to an audience.

Her heart was like a child scampering away from an intimidating dog, unsure if he was harmless. But, curious child that she was, she willed herself to move toward him, gradual and careful. She offered him her left hand to shake. “Yes, I am. Belle French. You must be Douglas.”

He flicked his gaze to her hand. He was mildly trepid, too, but his hand met hers. The shake was strong, pleasantly warm. A little calloused at the fingertips. “Douglas Gold. Pleasure.” His lips turned up in a slow smile.

Gold? Not Darrow or Rose? The question manifested as a twitch of her eyebrows. Belle didn’t let it go beyond that. Its answer might come without her prying. “The pleasure is all mine. I really appreciate the invitation.”

He let go and let his hand swung back to his side. It had to be a good sign that her being here wasn’t winding him up so much. “So, where are you from?”

It hit her then, and only then, that for the length of her stay in the UK so far, he was the first person to ask where she came from rather than assume she was Australian. As a Scotsman living in America, he must’ve understood the frustration of being mistaken for a tourist or having everyone around him assume that all parts of Scotland were the same.

“Avonlea. It’s just outside Perth. Uh, the one in Australia, not Scotland.”

As she clarified, her voice quivered with a sincere wish to avoid confusion and embarrassment at realizing that of course he would know which Perth she was talking about. Her nervous smile was feeble compensation. She had nothing left but to pray that she didn’t look like a complete twit.

Douglas did seem bemused by what she said. After a moment his smile opened up. “Isn’t there a Dundee in Australia, too?”

An astonished pause, then Belle laughed. “Yes, a couple places, actually.”

“America’s like that, too, especially in New England.”

“Oh, I’d love see that. I’ve always wanted to visit the States.”

“But you wanted to visit the UK first?”

She nodded. “My parents and I always talked about coming here. My mom was born in England, but her family moved to Australia when she was still little.”

“I see.” Douglas crossed from the kitchen into the living room. Assuming he wanted to sit, she followed, but against all appearances he simply moved into a spot where the lighting was a bit better. The floor lamp shined on Belle’s face. Much as she was aware of him observing her, she willed herself into a friendly, conversational mode.

“You’re visiting family then?” he asked.

Worry seized her. She stole a breath. “Well, no. None that I know of. I decided I needed . . . I’m traveling for the holiday, and the next two months. I’m going across Europe.”

The precision of his gaze fixed tightly on her body language. While he simply asking where she was going, unspoken judgment lurked behind his stare. Belle jumped into a quick but substantial rundown of all she wanted to do, from here to Taiwan, and finished as Una brought in the tea tray. Leslie called for Neal to come down for his cocoa.

“Your father’s at home, I take it,” Douglas slipped in while picking up a cup for himself.

It was here that Belle, far too certain what he must be thinking, sought any distraction from the feeling, and her eyes found his hands wrapping around the cup. Two things struck her. One, his fingers really were calloused, particularly the pads of his right-hand thumb and pointer finger. Was he a writer? No, his middle finger would’ve had more rough skin at the first knuckle if he frequently wrote with a pen. A painter? Probably a similar result. No, he did something that required mostly his first finger and thumb.

Second, there was a pale line across the base of his left-hand ring finger.

“He’s not much of a traveler.” There was no way to not sound self-centered when saying that. Even so, Belle tried to cushion the effect. “He made me promise to bring back one packet of flower seeds from each place I visit. He’s a florist.”

“Oh, I can help with that!” Leslie hurried through the kitchen. Her age did nothing to slow her down.

“Now ye’ve done it,” Una said with a crooked smile. “Once ye mention flowers, that’s all she’ll talk about the rest of the day.”

“You can’t really talk,” Douglas playfully pointed out.

She scoffed. “I’m not nearly as bad!”

“You want to make a competition out of it?”

“I’d win,” Leslie announced while striding back in, a handle-less basket in her hands. “Every time.”

“You both like gardening?” Belle peered into the basket with great interest.

“Plants are my specialty,” Leslie said with unbridled pride. “Una’s more a sheep person.”

“Livestock,” Una corrected. “Animals on the whole. I manage the sheep; she manages the garden. Of course, at this time of year, you can only _imagine_ how antsy she’s been.”

This launched the couple into the subject of fixing up the greenhouse they had behind the house, although that didn’t stop Leslie from giving Belle seeds for heather, thistle, and magnolia. Hands filled with seed packets, Belle looked at Douglas and found a weary but abiding look that made her grin. When he noticed her, he grinned back. That warmed her heart to a comforting degree. She’d only just met him—his opinion shouldn’t matter so, yet she hoped that he didn’t think her a heartless, ungrateful person for not spending the holidays with her family.

By the time the greenhouse issue began to dwindle in intensity, Neal had come down and joined his father on the sofa, while Belle sat adjacent on a velvet chair, her pockets stuffed with flower seeds. They all finished their hot drinks. Douglas served everyone but Neal a second cup of Lady Grey. It was an accurate preview of the dinner to come. Belle had almost forgotten why she’d let the women talk her into coming until she offered to take everyone’s cups to the kitchen to wash and dry, and at the sink she looked out the window and gasped. An endless army of white fat flakes was descending.

“Do you have snow in Australia?” Neal asked.

Belle started from how he was there without warning. She recovered shortly. “Not where I’ve lived. There _are_ mountains that get snow.”

“We’re from Maine. We get snow starting in November. Once in September.”

She laughed. “It’s so strange. For Australians, spring is September to November, and summer is December to February. Christmas is a summer holiday!”

“That _is_ weird.” The boy was smiling like he didn’t have to think about doing it anymore. “I’d like to see that, though.”

“I’m excited for my first winter Christmas. With snow!” She gazed out, no doubt looking like a silly delighted child.

Like his son, Douglas somehow materialized in the kitchen when she wasn’t looking, and was made aware only when he asked Neal to help set the table for dinner. “I can finish washing,” he said, already opening the cuffs of his sleeves and rolling them up his arms. That gave Belle an eyeful of his forearms, which she hadn’t expected to interest her at all. Honestly.

“Then I’ll finish drying,” she said, not about to lose the chance to be useful to her hosts. Bits of chatter between Una and Leslie trickled in the kitchen from the other room. It satisfied her to know she could give them a reprieve when she could smell some combination of cooked peas and meat simmering on the stove and in the oven. They must’ve started dinner before driving out.

“What brings you to Kirrie?” Douglas asked.

Belle quirked a bashful half-smile. “Well, it’s going to sound a bit silly, but I’ve been making stops at places associated with authors I really like. This morning I visited Huntly—you know George MacDonald?”

“Not personally.” He delivered the reply so flatly she took it as serious, so she threw a deadpan stare. He lost his straight-man façade and grinned like a devil. “But yes, I do know his work. The _ladies_ hooked me to his stories, in fact.” He nodded to the living room.

“Really? My mom did, too! I devoured The Chronicles of Narnia. I was so disappointed that there weren’t any more stories in the series, so she showed me MacDonald. His work was a big influence on Lewis. Do you have a favorite?”

“’The Light Princess.’” Douglas hadn’t even hesitated to think about it. That he could come up with his favorite story on the spot stirred her bibliophile heart. What he said next made her truly worried that it was going to stop beating. “Ever had a crush on a fictional character?”

“Only every other book I read.” By now she was too happy to be self-conscious.

Douglas’ laugh started as a small energetic burst that softened to gentle dryness. It reminded her of the inviting hearth in the other room. “That’s how it was with me and the princess in that story. As a wee lad, I wanted to be the prince.”

“So you could sacrifice your life to stop up the lake to save the kingdom? That’s so sweet.”

“More to help the princess, really.”

“Aww!” Belle had been holding a cup to her chest while drying it for a couple minutes. Suddenly realizing this, she set it down with the other dishes she’d wiped cleaned. “How dashing of you.”

He snorted. “Try to curb your expectations.”

The joking yet sincere manner of that warning summoned Belle’s attention back to his left hand. The faint line on the ring finger tempted her to ask whether he’d found his own princess in real life—one who, while not literally lacking gravity, embodied the light-hearted nature of his favorite heroine. Had she left him disappointed? Or had he disappointed her?

“I just realized you never answered my original question,” Douglas said. “But I think I know the reason. You’re here to visit the Barrie museum.”

“Good deduction,” Belle said. She’d hoped for a similar discussion of Barrie’s work, but something shadowed Douglas’ mood He’d shown clear if self-mocking nostalgia for “The Light Princess.” If his expression, turned down to the sink as he finished scrubbing away at the late plate, showed anything, it was dread.

Before another word could leave her mouth, Douglas handed her the plate, then stepped back and told his mothers the soup was about ready. “I’ll be back in a bit,” he said to her before taking his cane and walking with remarkable speed from the kitchen.

The air he left behind filled her with the certainty that she’d said or done something wrong. Neal came to her rescue.

“I don’t know what it is,” he said, “but he doesn’t like J.M. Barrie. I don’t know if it’s the writer or the Peter Pan story or what, but if anyone mentions them he just shuts down.”

“Oh.” Guilt punched her stomach. “You’ve no idea why?”

“He’s never explained it. I think . . . it sounds weird, but I think that’s why he hasn’t been back here in a long time.”

Belle didn’t hide her puzzled look. “Is this your first visit?”

“For me, yeah.”

Well, Scotland was a long way from America, though not nearly as far as it was from Australia. With that in mind, something more than time and money could’ve kept Douglas away from his hometown. “All because he doesn’t like James Barrie?”

Neal shrugged. “I told you it was weird. Maybe it’s not the reason at all.”

Una and Leslie reclaimed their kitchen, shooing Belle and Neal out so they could finish the preparations. Belle chatted him up about his hometown of Storybrooke in Maine, his school and friends, what subjects he was learning. He’d just started high school, and in reality he was missing a week’s worth of classes before winter break, but hey, he wasn’t complaining. His best friend, Emma, would help him catch up on his work. His dad wanted to make this Christmas a special one.

As soon as he said that, regret stamped across his face.

Belle should’ve resisted asking. Had someone figured out what happened to her mother and asked about it unprompted, she didn’t know how she’d react. But the tension created by Neal’s careless remark was too much. So she said, “Did your parents just separate?”

Neal locked in his shoulders. Then, like a balloon, the tension deflated. His shoulders dropped. “Not separate. Divorce.”

She bit her lip. “I’m sorry.”

He was too busy looking at the floral rug to muster an answer. The awkwardness was coming back, so Belle dared to ask what his mother was doing for Christmas. After some hesitation, Neal explained how she had family in Florida, so she was spending the holiday there. Her boyfriend was there, too.

“Is it bad that I want to know if my parents fought over me?” Neal asked after a mute moment.

Belle widened her eyes. She hadn’t considered that idea before—that maybe this trip was preluded by a heated debate over who would get their son for Christmas. Or, worse, that there hadn’t been an argument at all. That his mother never put up a struggle.

“Of course not,” she said.

“I still feel selfish thinking that way.”

Steeling herself, Belle took the seat next to Neal on the sofa. She put her arm around his shoulders. “I can’t say I know what you’re going through. But I do know this: things will get better. Believe me. They won’t be perfect, but they’ll be better.”

Words could soothe only so much pain. She was just grateful Neal didn’t lash out with understandable anger. He sat still. Within a minute, he leaned on her shoulder. She rubbed his farthest arm. Why now the tears came, she had no reasonable explanation. Neal was the one going through an imminent crisis. Maybe the moment was throwing in stark relief how alone Belle felt when her mother died. She’d had her friends at school, but she never felt as though anyone really understood it. After the funeral, it was easier to push the pain down with schoolwork. Every person who asked how she was or saw how she submerged into her studies watched with that same fretful worry that only angered her. Words of comfort sounded hollow. How could anyone understand? How?

They were sitting in a toasty living room, the fire brought back to a healthy blaze. It was snowing, turning the wind-bitten landscape into a magical white world. A part of Belle felt none of the magic. It wanted to, but old grief was draining her. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to come back to the present. She couldn’t. Not when this whole trip was about one thing, and only one thing.

_I’m sorry, Mom. I should’ve stayed home with Dad. That’s you would’ve wanted, not this stupid trip._

“Belle?” Neal sat up. “You okay?”

She opened her eyes and mopped her tears as quickly as possible. “Sorry. I’m just . . . hang on, I’ll be right back.”

She walked in haste out the living room and made a sharp turn to escape the notice of the ladies. The toilet was mercifully close. Within two feet of reaching it, Belle was stopped by the cellar door swinging open. She stumbled back. Douglas came into the light. In a split-second reaction, he caught her arm. She couldn’t say if she would’ve fallen if he hadn’t. It did change something, though.

Her heart rammed in her throat. The warm, strong hand made her briefly forget she’d been crying. When he pulled it back, her hand instinctively caught it, as though wary that losing him might cause her to sway backward again.

“What’s wrong?” His dark eyes danced over her face, as though he could find the culprit for her unhappiness.

“I . . .”

As though rethinking his decision to let her go, Douglas brought his hand to Belle’s shoulder. He didn’t seem like a tactile person when it came to strangers—a thought that made her all the more appreciative. “What happened? Just tell me.”

She shook her head. “No one did anything. I just . . . I’m sorry. Neal told me about you and your wife.”

The shock hit him hard enough to make Belle cringe for his sake. Not her brightest moment. At least he said, “That’s why you’re crying?” with a mix of confusion, concern and humor.

“Not exactly.” She sniffed. “Can I grab a tissue?”

“Oh, right.” Rather than let her do so, Douglas ducked into the toilet and came back with a big wad of tissues. A more natural smile emerged from Belle. She untangled a sheet from the cluster and cleaned up her face. She thanked him.

“Is there anything I can do?” he asked.

She put serious thought to the question. It couldn’t be right to burden someone she barely knew with her troubles. But she’d been doing that for two years, hadn’t she? Keeping it all locked up where it couldn’t hurt anyone but herself. It did no good in the end.

“If you don’t mind,” she said, “I can tell you the real reason I’m here instead of home for Christmas.”

Douglas looked uncertain. She was ready to take back the request, when suddenly he cupped her elbow and said, “Would downstairs suffice? There’s a furnace.”

Belle let her astonishment wash out her nerves. Then she slipped her arm around his. “Sure. That’d be fine.”

There again came a fleeting notion that she was being lured into a dangerous lair. The idea dissolved into fantasy when she laid eyes on Douglas’s hidden project. Along with some stuffed chairs for them to sit on, the carpeted cellar was occupied by three spinning wheels. One had its bobbin wrapped up in thread, and a bundle of unspun wool was resting in a basket on the floor.

“So _this_ is why your mothers keep sheep.” Belle looked at him with newfound admiration. “You know how to spin?”

“It’s not that remarkable.” Even so, he did look a bit proud of this skill. He explained more once sitting down. “They taught me as a wee lad. It’s a handy craft. Good way to make money in these parts, if you have other income, too.” His hand flicked away the topic. “That’s not why I wanted you here. This is the most private place that isn’t a bedroom.”

Belle told herself she didn’t know why that comment left her warm under the collar. She quickly sat and chased away the image of doing the same on a bed with Douglas next to her. Should she have thought of him as Mr. Gold this whole time? He was at least twenty years older than her. In truth, she liked thinking of him by his first name, inappropriate as that might have been. Her eyes wandering to his hair and hands didn’t help.

“So, what did you want to tell me?” he asked.

Her eyes were drying, but the burn of more unshed tears wouldn’t leave. Belle took that as a sign to follow through. Bit by bit, with slow-building courage, she told her story. It was about a girl who loved her mother dearly. They’d made plans and promises to travel together, to visit her mother’s birthplace and make a kind of pilgrimage to the hometowns of their favorite writers.

When the girl was away at school, earning her degree in library sciences, her mother got in a road accident. It happened in early December. She was in a rush doing under-the-wire Christmas shopping and not staying aware of the other drivers, which she usually did. Someone else was in a hurry, too—some big bloody idiot with a mean streak. Her mother had cut him off on the freeway, by his account, and that sparked him to get into a kind of road race. One mistake had caused his car to clip hers, and she went tumbling across the road and down an embankment. The worst the man got was a few bruises from braking and skidding to a stop. The coward saw what happened and took off; the police caught him later, thanks to God and a few witnesses who called an ambulance. Her mother had been in a coma for a couple days before passing away. That might have been the worst part—the false hope right before the end.

The girl came home for the funeral a week before Christmas. The holiday rolled by without her really noticing. It simply wasn’t Christmas, despite what the tree in their house told them. She hoped that school would distract her, and that working as hard as ever for her degree would honor her mother’s memory. The pain didn’t go away, however. It wore her down. Nothing was healing. The next Christmas brought only the barest glimmer of joy, and the joy itself felt wrong.

So here she was. Her third Christmas since that tragedy, and instead of trying to go back to the way things were, she thought taking the trip she and her mother had talked about would cleanse her grief once and for all. Now it felt like nothing but a betrayal. Christmas was about appreciating what you still had, cherishing it to the fullest. What would her mother think of her?

A few more tears fell by the time Belle ran out of story and words. She hated that this tale had no clear ending yet, happy or not. Books were a reprieve from life’s messes and cruelty. Even when MacDonald and Barrie and Doyle and Stevenson put their characters through misery, some profound resolution came about. Jekyll’s tragic sacrifice, Holmes’ triumphant exposure of the culprit, Wendy’s acceptance of growing up, Tangle’s brave leap into the land from which shadows fall, which reunited her with her friend Mossy—well, that story didn’t have as clear a resolution. She loved “The Golden Key,” undoubtedly her favorite tale in the collection, but that ending remained a bit lacking for years after she first read it. She supposed the point wasn’t the destination—presumably Heaven, as the two heroes were last seen climbing up and up the stairs to the sky. Maybe the point lay in how they had found each other again and had grown as a result of their experiences.

And what wisdom was she, if she were a character, to take away from her mother’s unfair death? A cautionary tale about road rage? An inspiring lesson in how people can survive terrible loss? If there was a lesson, she wasn’t learning it. Her grief made it impossible to be a reader of her own story.

“I think your mother would understand.”

Belle raised her head to Douglas. He hadn’t spoken in a while. She’d assumed he had nothing to say that would amend her wound. The words he presented were heartfelt, but as a salve they didn’t take.

“I don’t know. Even if you’re right, I can’t make myself believe it.”

The man across from her wore a look that reached something deep inside her that was shattered and bruised. Whether or not he meant to, he touched it with sympathetic care. It brought her some pain. It was hard to keep staring at him. He’d been more guarded before. Now his demeanor was so receptive, soft-spoken, undemanding. Not a word was said about how she should feel. He let her feel. He let it all pour out. When silence reigned except for some sniffling on her part, he took another tissue from the wad. He didn’t hand it to her. He folded it up, leaned across the small space between them and dabbed the tears from her cheeks. His skin didn’t touch hers. Her pulse raced. She held still until her face was dry.

He handed her another tissue. On impulse, but also in gratitude, Belle accepted it and lightly squeezed his fingers. She felt her heart thump in her chest, pushing blood all the way down her arm, into her fingers where the echoing beats met Douglas’ pulse.

She withdrew her hand. His fell.

Shortly after Belle finished blowing her nose, energy returned to him. He stood and moved to the spinning wheel with the thread. He sat on the stool beside it. “Want me to tell you a story?”

Belle sat up. A thrill stirred her heart even more. “If you’d like to.”

Douglas nodded, picked up the basket with the raw wool and took the fluff in his wide hands. In a minute his tapered fingers were twisting the length of wool already around the spindle and feeding in the rest while his foot tapped the treadle, setting the wheel in motion. Belle gasped. She picked up her chair. She joined him without breaking his attention on the task or the words that followed.

His story went like this:

There was a boy born in the city of Glasgow. The only family he knew was his father, a man who loved games and pranks but hated the drudgery of work. He couldn’t hold down a job for more than a few months. He’d garnered a reputation as a slacker. He started conning people on the street corner with his card games, just to make ends meet. The boy didn’t see much appeal in the trick, but he accompanied his father to make sure the man stayed out of trouble. In time things got bad—really bad. Too dangerous for them to stay in the city. One day the man told his son they had to go live somewhere else. The boy loved Glasgow, but he loved his father more. Anywhere they lived, he was fine with as long as they were together.

The boy and his father left the city. Sometimes walking, sometimes riding with a kind driver willing to take them a few miles (whom his father would later pickpocket for some cash or a valuable to sell), they went from town to town. After a couple weeks they arrived in another city called Perth. There they made a short visit to a lady the boy had never seen before. He didn’t learn if this lady, same age as his da, was a relation or just an old friend. Either way, she wasn’t close enough to give the pair a place to live. They paid her only one visit. However, a few days later he saw a thick envelope in his father’s jacket, and as he’d hoped, his father pulled out a wad of money. For a little while they made do with that. Every day they stayed in a building with lots of other men and boys looking for homes, except a couple times they had to sleep under a bridge out of sight from the Filth or any neds who might harm them. But the same problems circled back: his father couldn’t hold a job; he angered the wrong people, owed the wrong people, and was running out of hiding places. The boy didn’t see any more envelopes of money. That might’ve had something to do with why they left Perth.

This time, they didn’t seem to know where they were going until his father showed him their copy of _Peter and Wendy._ His father loved the story and was sure the boy loved it just as much. So he told him, “Laddie, we’re gonna live where Peter truly came from. Nae Kensington, but a wee town called Kirriemuir. This guy, Mr. Barrie, was born there. And they got this statue of Peter in the town square. Gonna be pure magic, ma boy.”

Didn’t really matter to the boy, so long as it made his father happy. So they journeyed north by the same means they used from Glasgow to Perth. Once again, they started off as before, only Kirriemuir was tiny, not nearly as many places for a con and a vagrant to hole away.

About a week after coming to town, the boy and his father met two women, a couple who, upon seeing the underfed boy, offered them a place to stay for a few days. They had a nice farmhouse right outside town. They raised sheep, grew flax, and used the natural fibers of both to spin and sell thread or yarn. One was also an herbalist who owned a small shop in the town, while her partner worked part-time at a veterinary care center. The man eagerly accepted their generosity.

After one night at the farmhouse, the man told his son he’d found a job opportunity in the next town over. With a promise to return by tomorrow, and giving the lad a doll to keep him company, the man left, never actually telling the boy or the women which town he was going to.

A day went by. Then a week. The boy was sure something bad had happened to his da. The women were concerned, but their worries lay more with the boy. They fed him, bought clothes when they realized he had only one other change of shirt and trousers, and tucked him in bed. They sat with him whenever nightmares of his father being dragged down an alley or wailed on by shadow men made sleep almost impossible. Then, at last, something close to news came. A package of money and a short note from his father arrived two weeks after his departure. The return address was in Perth, giving the boy hope that his father had won over that other woman they visited, and he’d be back soon to take him to their new home together. The note made no such promise—it only requested that the kind ladies take good care of the boy until he came to get him.

As might be obvious by now, he never did. In his head the boy made up story after story about why his da couldn’t come back. When months became a year, the ladies sat the boy down and asked if he’d like them to enroll him in school. Though reluctant to make any promise without his father present, he agreed. As more years passed, grim acceptance set in. Even if his father did plan to return, it wouldn’t be to raise his boy. The boy became a young man. In his sixteenth year, the ladies again sat him down and explained a few things they kept him ignorant of. They’d made a conscious effort to find his father and confront him over what he’d done. They did track down the woman in Perth. She was, in fact, the boy’s aunt, but she’d been suffering from heart disease these past twelve years and had neither the money nor the strength to take care of anyone but herself. Further attempts to find the man himself were unsuccessful.

The boy realized, then and there, that his stories were all lies, and he couldn’t live with them anymore. He did love his informal guardians, as much mothers to him as anyone could be, but he resolved to go as soon as he could afford university. He left the town of the boy who wouldn’t grow up to do just the opposite. But a part of him did stay that little boy, always waiting for his father, even though he knew that, now, he didn’t need him.

As soon as Douglas finished his story, the spinning wheel stopped. He’d spun all the wool in the basket. It had wound snugly around the bobbin, glowing the same shade of white as the sheep she’d seen just outside earlier today. Very close to the snow now surrounding the house. He must’ve seen her staring at it. Douglas carefully pried it off the spindle, then presented it to Belle like it was a treasure he’d brought from a far-off land.

“For you, milady.”

Her eyes rounded. “Oh! Really? How much does it cost?”

“It’s on the house. I don’t tend to sell what I spin myself. If they like it, Una and Leslie include it in their inventory.”

“Then I should pay them.”

“Much as I’d appreciate that, they won’t take it.” He lowered the bobbin. “Only take it if you’d like to.”

Belle was sure she looked like a beached codfish, mouth hung open as she stared at him and the bobbin. She finally gathered her wits and said, “You’ve given me so much already.”

Douglas shrugged. “Tis the season.”

He wasn’t used to this, she realized. He didn’t embrace the selfless Christmas ideal to the degree his mothers did, which made these gifts—his heart-wrenching story and the lovely thread—all the more special. As she looked at his face, lined but still quite handsome, her heart thumped. At the same time, a few things became illuminated.

He was right. It was the season to give. As a child it seemed a simple lesson to remember, but the great wide world of adulthood, full of loss and fear, made it a challenge. And what had her mother always said about challenges? Face them with bravery and faith.

_You must throw yourself in. There is no other way._

“All right,” she said. “But I have to give you something in return. Deal?”

Distrust crept in. Those alluring dark eyes narrowed, like he was expecting a trick. That’s what he was used to. Well, for now and for the rest of her time with him, be it just today or in the weeks leading to Christmas, or Hogmanay, or possibly the days and months beyond, she’d work hard to defy that expectation.

“Very well. Deal.”

“Good. I’ll give it to you now—and I hope you won’t think me too forward.”

She didn’t give him a chance to question. Her hand covered his and the bobbin it held. The other hand anchored her to his shoulder as she got up and leaned forward. His surprised stare took her in as she drew close to the point that their faces were an inch apart. Her intention couldn’t be clearer. She did give him a moment to recoil if he wished. Just as he’d offered his gift without force, she wanted to do the same. To her relief, he held his seat, no less surprised but by no means repulsed.

Belle gave a little smile. Then her lips closed in on his. A simple, chaste kiss. They _had_ just met. And for a first-meeting first kiss, it was near perfect. A warm, sweet comfort of the moment. It was also a promise that there was a future to look forward to. Things _could_ get better. They would.

But the present was already becoming quite nice. She meant to pull away sooner, but the rightness of the sensation melted any lingering anxiety. After half a minute of leaning over to meet his mouth, Belle’s legs gave up and she sank down as gracefully as she could onto Douglas’s lap. His bewilderment was gone, too. His arms came around her for support. She did the same, as he had no chair back to keep him from falling backward. Not one to miss a ripe opportunity, she combed her fingers through the ends of his hair, which prompted him to pull her more tightly against him. The chaste kiss was starting to heat into something more. Her mouth started to open for him, as did his for her.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Leslie chirped.

The startled pair pulled apart. Belle staggered off Douglas’s lap. She felt as hot and red as a cooked lobster. Both of them glared at the ladies huddled on the cellar stairs.

“We did a coin flip,” Una said, “for whoever had to stop you two from . . . you know.”

Leslie frowned at her. “Just remember that it’ll be _your_ job next time.”

“That’s not how it works!”

“ _Anyway_ —” Leslie sent Belle and Douglas an expectant look. “Supper’s ready. Come on up.”

Seeing the ladies treat what they just saw as a common occurrence eased Belle, somewhat. Embarrassed yet giddy, she skipped upstairs. Her heart, becoming unshackled, rose up like a bird as the rest of her climbed toward the smell of meat pies and green pea soup. A bagpipe and fiddle rendition of “I Saw Three Ships” was playing on a stereo.

Douglas, after retrieving his cane off the floor, started up the steps but paused in front of his mothers.

“You didn’t _plan_ this, did you?”

Both women assumed confused expressions.

“Don’t know what you mean,” Una said.

“Not an inkling,” Leslie said.

“You said you didn’t bring Belle hear to cheer up Neal.” His searching gaze shifted back and forth. He was a hound on the scent. “Did you have a reason besides doing it out of the goodness of your hearts?”

Una and Leslie shared a look. A silent agreement was reached. They faced Douglas.

“If there _was_ a reason—” Una started.

“—what makes you think we’d ever tell you?” Leslie finished.

“Don’t _do_ that. It’s still creepy.” Douglas sighed and continued up to the ground floor.

As soon as he was out of sight, the ladies exchanged foxish grins. Una held out her hand, palm up. Leslie slapped it. Then their fingers linked, and together they ascended the staircase.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm shocked I didn't post this much sooner (previously just on Tumblr). Well, it's here now, only one year late. Enjoy!


End file.
